


The Lives of Saints - Part I

by Persephone



Series: The Lives of Saints [1]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Brotherhood, Brothers, Childhood, Gen, Ireland, Sweet, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First three of six vignettes narrating incidents in the lives of the brothers, from ages twelve through seventeen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lives of Saints - Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This series is dedicated to the Boondock Saints fanartists.
> 
> It’s always been one of the finest ways in which we can truly possess fandom. People love fanfiction, but great fanart makes us soar.
> 
> Like a lot of you, I’ve collected fanart over the years on LJ and across the internet, and I frequently go to them when I feel dry of inspiration, and they’ve talked to me like very few things can.
> 
> So I humbly offer to the artists these short pieces which I hope do justice to the stories I see contained in each of these works.
> 
>  **Note:** I’m sorry to say that when I initially downloaded these years ago, I didn’t see the artist’s name on the files. So I don’t have names. If you know/are the artist behind any of these works, please please email me or inform me in a comment.
> 
> Thank you!

**Young Ones  
~*~**

  


At twelve he realized it was easier to talk to Murphy with his fists than with his words.

It had been a face-pounding like no other.

But it was also at twelve that he discovered what intense pleasure it gave him. To use his fists and body like that, with Murphy.

They were finished fighting, and he was looking at the blood stains on his school T-shirt with a funny feeling growing inside him. As if he had never seen anything like it. When in fact he had, many times, and over and over.

But this time it was different, it felt more like sometimes when he was on his bed alone and thinking of Fiona Dennehy.

Murphy felt no such thing. He could tell.

Murph was not happy, excited or feeling warm inside.

Murphy was livid. He would be pissing vinegar, as Ma would say, for the rest of the week. It was obvious his brother was not quite done pounding punctuations into his face just yet.

The fault was a hundred percent his own; he could not help his own intelligence. And he preferred to accentuate it, usually verbally, rather than understate it. Murphy, on the other hand, preferred to shut it for him. And any attempts at reasoning only prolonged matters.

Yet when it was time to stand there and explain to the Sister what had caused him and Murphy to become covered in blood, he failed to come up with words.

He could think of none that mattered when compared to this new discovery of his.

He rubbed his fingers into the blood. It had come from his lip, which was cut and still stung, and had made his eyes water.

His insides warmed until he felt like he was turning into mashed potatoes.

All he wanted was to go home. He was so upset with Murphy, always wanting to beat on a fella, that he wanted nothing more than to track down that mutt that stayed down at his uncle Micah’s pub, and make a shite sandwich out of its poo for Murphy to have for dinner.

But with the same mind, he wanted to crawl into Murphy’s bed tonight and sleep tightly locked in Murphy’s trembling embrace.

The Sister was scolding away.

He let go of the stretchy material and watched it shrink back against his stomach.

It wasn’t until years later that he understood that if he felt this odd way, it was because no one else could make it feel so wonderful to be alive. No one but Murphy.

Behind him, Murphy was breathing deeply, lifting his hand to wipe his mouth at the spot where Connor had split his lip quite badly. He had also left a deep cut under Murphy’s left eye. Ma would see to that.

“Murphy MacManus, _do_ you hear a _word_ I’m saying?”

“Aye, Sister, I do,” Murphy said softly.

But she wasn’t done with them by far. She had yet to get to him, and punishment was still undetermined.

He almost let out a sigh, but caught himself.

The bell would soon sound, freeing them for the day. Then they would walk back home together in the dusk, through the winter woods.

He let his left arm slowly drop, dangling at his side. Murphy’s arm also lowered, no longer wiping at his mouth, and a moment later their fingers were tangled, hanging by their sides.

Without anymore words or actions—by the overhead clock there were still ten minutes to go—they waited for the day to come to an end.

 

  
**First Christmas  
~*~**   


  
At fifteen they had their first Christmas together.

Up until then, Christmas had always been the time when Ma made them dress up for Mass in crisp white shirts and the grey knickers with the creases so perfectly pressed as to cut a wayward child.

They would sit in church and fidget until it was time to go home, and then they would go home and eat at Aunt Moira’s, Una’s, Rachel’s or Abigail’s, depending on who was cooking that year, then play with their bratty cousins until it was dark enough for everybody to go home.

But at fifteen Ma had had to follow their Aunt Lidia—on their father’s side—away for a few days to take care of a premature baby belonging to some other distant cousin, and they had been left alone.

Murphy had had the idea while they had been working off hours of forced labor on their school play, rattling chains for Ebenezer Scrooge’s immortal soul, that they pour coughing powder on the links to the chains.

The night of the play, the auditorium had been filled with alternate shushing and coughing, and then more irritated shushing, until one of the Sisters had figured out what they—what Murphy—had done.

So instead of having his first Christmas alone to himself feasting and cider-ing and whatnot, he had spent the morning arranging transportation to the orphanage two towns over to pass out Christmas presents to needy children.

And so they had caught tipsy Farmer Colm’s horse and buggy, and from the minute they had gotten there it had been disaster all the way.

The children had been bats outta hell, and the Sisters who ran the place had been shrill and helpless. He had had to scold the little hellcats so many times, his throat had all but gone sore.

And then when they had finally been able to leave he had discovered that Murphy had forgotten to remind now-drunk Farmer Colm that they would be returning with him. And so the man had skipped with the buggy, forgetting altogether that he had brought passengers with him.

That left a trudging through the woods to get back home.

That winter had dumped a foot of snow on their part of Ireland. Obviously the kind of weather that had thwarted their ancestors and had made the brew a not so bad idea as the staple diet of the land.

He was freezing his nipples off walking through the cold twilight, biting off curses with each step.

But Murphy was in high spirits, humming, then breaking into bars of a folk song. It made him believe Murphy had gotten into too much of the Sisters’ liquored cider while he wasn’t looking.

He threw his brother a dirty look.

“Who the fuck are ya singin’ for, huh, Murph? We wouldn’t be in any of this fucken mess were it not for yer fucken shite attitude—“

He cut himself off and looked around. It had begun to snow. And it was heavy enough that in the twilight, their path would soon be obscured. He stopped.

“Shit,” he said lifelessly.

Murphy had turned and had been looking at him while shuffling through the snow, listening to him complaining. Now Murphy too stopped. To his utter confusion, his brother had a blissful smile on his face.

“What, Murph, what!” he cried in exasperation. “This isn’t my idea of a fun Christmas. There’s fucken ice in my trousers and my arse hole still hurts from that kid trying to stick his finger inside me!”

Murphy was still smiling at him, his lips stretched childishly across his face.

“You went back for the rest of the cider, didn’t ya?”

Murphy shook his head. Then he reached forward and took him by the arms.

“When are ya gonna stop being mad at me, Connor?”

He blinked at Murphy. He hadn’t realized he was on a time schedule.

“It’s so beautiful,” Murphy said, still smiling. “Don’t ya see it?”

Around them, the fluffy white snowflakes drifted down. He didn't look.

“Whatthefuck?” he whispered, narrowing his eyes at his brother.

“It’s Christmas, Connor.”

When he only stared, Murphy tugged on his arm. Then Murphy stepped closer and wrapped his arms around his neck.

Connor remained as he was.

What was all this? Didn’t he have an unaddressed grievance he wasn’t quite finished airing?

Murphy was frustrating him with his saintly smile, blinking at him like a little boy.

“Come on, lass,” Murphy encouraged gently.

“Are ya drunk, Murphy?” he tried one last time.

Murphy shook his head, still smiling.

Eventually, he moved closer.

And after another moment’s hesitation, he put his arms around his brother’s waist. He placed his forehead against Murphy’s and closed his eyes.

Now he could feel Murphy’s smile in each breath on his face.

He didn’t know when they had started this. Probably while they were still in Ma’s uterus. And they seemed too old to be doing it still.

But they were like this all the time in their heads. It didn’t worry them who saw, or what they would do about it if they did.

Well, this next part they cared who saw. So they had taken to only doing it only when they were alone. They listened to each other’s breathing, waiting to know when it would be right.

It soon became right, and they raised their heads enough to touch each other’s lips, and breathe.

A moment later Murphy slanted his head, and he held his steady. Their lips slipped open. Their tongues touched, flicked, then melded.

He gripped and pulled Murphy’s sweater, and Murphy whispered “Aye,” into his mouth.

Snow floated down around them, and in the distance they heard carolers singing.

The cider was finally starting to make itself useful, rising up to his head while Murphy warmed the rest of him.

They had grown tall together, though, despite their wishful thinking, they had neither both become blonds nor brunettes, and at fifteen were maintaining the same height.

It felt good to turn his head this way and have it be the way Murphy’s mouth, nose, and even the ridges of his eyebrows would have to turn, as if they shared just one head, one body, one set of arms and legs.

They rubbed their faces together, like how they used to do when they were very small.

Then Murph pulled away and started walking again, pulling him with him.

He slipped his arm around Murphy’s waist, and Murphy threw his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.

It was their first Christmas without Ma, and no Mass. No crisp white shirts, no grey knickers with or without creases.

They were alone and together, and it felt right. Like it wasn’t quite over, and was the tone of things to come.

 

  
**Seventeen Just Once  
~*~**   


  
Murph at seventeen hit maturity.

Ma, overheard on the backyard fence, kept telling the neighbors it was an angry streak. That it was all right, it was a phase all boys went through.

But that it was different with Connor because Connor had always been the sober one.

He couldn’t make out what old Mrs Keary said in response, but it couldn’t have been any more intelligent.

Ma had been wrong. It was a phase of introspection that up until the day it began, neither of them could have seen coming.

They had turned seventeen, and Murphy had wanted him to run away with him.

It wasn’t out of spite or anger at Ma, it had been out of an urge to see the world.

They had just started their final year at school, but Murphy, already far ahead of 99% of the boys at school, had wanted to leave two years before.

Murphy had asked him the day they turned seventeen and he had spent every opportunity for the rest of the day lecturing Murphy on why it was a poor idea. Perhaps even a retarded one.

At first Murphy had seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt, but then, as the weeks, then the months passed, Murphy had realized he meant it.

That he wasn’t leaving Ma and the familiarity of home for some fantasy life Murphy seemed to think they could manage in some other place.

Which was when what Ma described as Murphy’s angry streak began. Though Murphy had always been inclined to speak less, Murphy seemed positively chatty then as compared to now.

Murphy began to observe more.

He observed when he, Connor, lost his virginity—not to be mistaken with his first hand/blowjob—to Fiona Dennehy— tall, dark-haired and lovely, and when Ma was messing up on the finances and required backup, and when it hurt, though he tried not to show it, when other boys mocked their absence of a father.

It was at that stage that Murphy observed young men the same age as they being quietly recruited for the Republican Army, but never asking aloud why they weren’t allowed anywhere near such men.

And it was also at that stage, for the first and last time in their lives, that Murphy had looked him hard in the eye, one night after dinner, and had asked him, “Connor, do you love me?”

He had snorted out a “What?” before he even knew he had responded.

But the quiet, direct look Murphy had pinned on him had forestalled further snippiness.

Murphy had leaned a bit forward on the rectangular wooden table. “Cuz, _I_ love you,” Murphy stated slowly, still holding his gaze, “and I wanna hear you say it.”

His stomach began to tighten. It had been this way all night, ever since their Ma had picked up her whiskey and had headed into the parlor, to watch the telly for the rest of the night.

He felt nervous not because he didn’t love Murphy—that would be unnatural beyond saying, and went without saying—but because he knew that if he didn’t say it just right, Murphy would spend the rest of his natural life making him pay.

He crossed his arms over his chest and casually lifted one side of his mouth, hypnotizing Murphy with a calculated, condescending look.

“I love ye so much, I do have a special portion’a my heart set aside just for ya, that you yourself don’t even know about.”

Murphy's expression didn’t change. Or it tried not to. He was looking on, trying to see whether Connor had anything in his hand with which he could be shoveling shit down his throat.

Murph looked and looked, and saw he meant it.

Murphy’s arms relaxed, until then crossed on the table, and he sat back. Then Murphy brought his thumb to his mouth and started meticulously chewing on his thumbnail. His eyes finally drifted away.

Connor stood up and picked up the plates, reaching across to grab Murphy’s.

The quiet sounds of Ma’s programme played in the background. Out in the darkness, rain and sleet spat at the kitchen window.

As he put dirty plates into the sink, he could feel Murphy’s eyes on him.

Murphy would soon have other, probably equally bizarre questions for him, and he had better be as ready as he had been for this easy one.

He had no idea where it could be coming from; he wasn’t going through any such process.

He heard Murphy shift, his hand presumably lowering from his face. He heard him shift forward on the bench.

When Murphy softly, dangerously, called out his name again, he was ready.

~*~

_Continued..._


End file.
